


Still Healing Even After All These Years

by SilentScreamer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 03B, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentScreamer/pseuds/SilentScreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek hates that Stiles seeks out pain as a means to deal with his post possession guilt, even years later, but he knows that he’ll always give Stiles what he needs.</p>
<p>What they have isn’t perfect but it’s their slice of perfect</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Healing Even After All These Years

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a post 3B fic and deals a bit with post-Nogistune feelings. In this story Stiles deals with that aftermath using BDSM techniques--more clearly he used pain and punishment as a means to deal with what happened. There is whipping in this story so I wanted to warn everyone about that so as to not trigger someone by accident.
> 
> I wrote this for a fic exchange late last year.

Derek is surprised when he walks into the loft Wednesday afternoon after his usual shift at the sheriff’s station and sees Stiles naked except for a nondescript black collar that Derek had gotten him halfway through his senior year of high school.

Derek takes in the scene before him: Stiles kneeling with his head bowed and his wrists perfectly clasped behind his back and smelling of desperation, nervousness, and panic. Rather than make a beeline for Stiles, Derek calmly places his keys in the jar by the door and quietly slips off his shoes and hangs up his jacket before heading into their bedroom, which they share when Stiles isn’t at Stanford. He places his gun and extra rounds in his safety box.

As Derek throws his uniform in the hamper, he takes a minute to play over the most recent conversation that he and Stiles had. It had been in their biweekly Friday Skype session that Stiles had instituted as a thing halfway into his first semester at Stanford. Sure, Stiles had look frazzled and frayed but he had also snarked back and given Derek direct orders to keep watching what his dad was eating, no matter how much his dad moaned. Stiles had assured Derek that his frazzled state was the result of the end of semester onslaught of finals and papers and wasn’t the “I’m thinking too much again about all the shit I’ve done” kind of frazzled.

Derek knows the distinction now--had known since they’d gotten more serious, so he thinks that whatever has happened is recent and menacing enough for Stiles to make the trek to Beacon Hills and abandon Stanford in the middle of all the end-of-semester chaos.

Derek walks out of the bedroom and into the loft’s central room that is decorated with a mismatch of old Hale and Stilinski family trinkets which Derek and Cora had saved from the Hale house before it was condemned by the county. After Derek had asked Stiles to move in with him, Stiles had shown up with a box of old family pictures. He’d asked in a wary voice if he could put them up around the loft, almost like he thought asking for space in the loft would make Derek reconsider his offer of them living together.

After they had told the pack of their new living arrangement, Lydia elected herself in charge of buying furniture for the loft, including a large sectional couch that the pack took advantage of whenever their self-appointed pack meeting turned into pack movie night and gaming chairs which Stiles used whenever he and Scott had their marathon gaming sessions.

Derek takes a seat on the coffee table and spreads his legs wider, offering an implicit invitation for Stiles to come closer.

When Stiles was ensconced in the vee of his legs, Derek puts his thumb under Stiles’ chin and forces him to look him in the eye. “What’s going on, Stiles?”

Derek watches Stiles’ Adam’s apple bob up and down a few times as he swallows up attempted false starts. He lets his left hand slip behind Stiles’ head and squeezes the nape of Stiles’ neck and feels Stiles go boneless beneath his touch.

Stiles releases one last breath. “I can’t concentrate on anything. I’m pretty sure that if I don’t get an A on this Folklore paper, I’m going to fail the class, and when I was at the library I saw someone that looked and smelled like Allison.” His voice cracks at the end.

Squeezing the nape of Stiles’ neck one more time, Derek looks into his eyes and says, “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to take me down. I need to not think for a while,” Stiles says, whimpering, worried that maybe Derek would refuse.

Derek nods before he extricates himself from Stiles and heads back into their room for the toy chest buried deep in the back of their closet away from werewolves’ prying eyes. After the Nogitsune was exorcised from Stiles’ body, it came as no surprise to anyone that Stiles just didn’t bounce back and retain his wry, springy form.

The pack all helped in their own ways—Scott had re-initiated their biweekly gaming nights at his house, which had fallen by the wayside after he’d been bitten. Isaac helped him find a supernatural therapist with the help of Morrell because he knew that just because shitty things stopped happening to someone, it didn’t mean that all of the corresponding memories were erased. And Derek? Derek helped feed Stiles’ occasional fix for pain.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Shortly after Stiles had regained full use of his body again, he had shown up at Derek’s loft with a belt and told him, “I can either get this from you or some guy in a back alley,” handing over the belt and working his way into Derek’s loft like he belonged there. The wolf in Derek had whined and seethed at the implication that Stiles would seek comfort from someone who wasn’t pack, would let some other man whip out his misplaced guilt that the Nogitsune had left behind.

Over time Stiles came over less and less with a belt and more often came over with burgers and a movie, further situating himself in any abandoned crannies of Derek’s life he could find. While occasionally Derek whipped Stiles’ skin raw, that wasn’t all they were.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Derek grabs a wooden paddle and a leather whip from the toy chest along with a set of sturdy chains before retreating back into the loft’s living area. He always lets Stiles choose his method of punishment—always wants Stiles to have some control over the scene. In the beginning Stiles hated the choice but it was a nonnegotiable item for Derek. He didn’t particularly like hitting Stiles but he knew that he’d get this from someone else, and Derek knew that not every asshole wielding a paddle respected the limits of the other person.

Derek presents the items to Stiles, letting him inspect each device before asking, “Which one?” with the same authoritative voice that he used when training his former betas.

Stiles unclasps his hands from behind his back and turns over each device in his hands—takes in the sturdiness of the paddle and the well-wornness of the whip before passing the whip back to Derek. “This one.”

Stiles returns his hands back to the tightly clasped formation and rather than once again averting his eyes to the floor, Stiles looks at Derek directly, smirking. Stiles doesn’t go all meek but rather he pushes back, stretches the limits.

“Do you need to be chained up?” Derek asks, circling Stiles’ body and rolling the whip around in his hands as he feels the heaviness and warmness of the leather. Just as Stiles falls into his headspace, Derek becomes more alert, focused.

Stiles shakes his head.

“I need to hear an answer,” Derek says grabbing a fistful of Stiles hair and forcing him to look up at Derek.

“No,” Stiles says, adding a hasty “sir,” and with that Derek releases Stiles’ hair and pushes his face towards the newly installed hardwood floors.

“Brace yourself and spread your feet shoulder width apart,” Derek says, watching with amazement at how Stiles moves his body gracefully into position, pushing his hands more firmly into the cherry floors. The same Stiles that trips over his own two feet on the way to the coffee pot each morning.

“What’s your safeword?”

Derek hears Stiles let out a sigh and sees some of the underlying tensions bleed out of Stiles’ body “Wolfsbane, sir,” Stiles says.

Derek nods. “Count the strikes.” He readies the whip in his hands and waits for Stiles’ body to unclench in preparation of the first strike as Derek pauses the whip in midair.

Derek focuses his aim on Stiles’ buttocks with the first strike and he sees the last vestiges of tension leave Stiles’ body.

“One, sir.”

“Good boy,” Derek murmurs as he readies for strike two.

_Crack_!

“Two sir,” Stiles says, bucking and whimpering into the whip’s lashes.

Derek alternates the blows to each butt cheek and by the time Stiles pants out, “Six, sir,” Stiles’ ass is turning a deep shade of cherry red and his hands are beginning to tremble as he struggles to continue holding himself up.

_Crack_!

“Seven, sir.” If the hitching intakes of breath are anything to go by, Stiles is beginning to cry. By the end of this, Derek knows that Stiles will be screaming, sobbing, and pleading as he brings down the whip across the middle of Stiles’ ass.

Derek’s world tunnels down to nothing more than the feel of the whip in his hands and the blooming and smarting skin he was hitting with his human strength—never his werewolf strength.

The loft fills with nothing more than harsh breathing, sweating, sobs, and the starkness of each crack.

By the tenth smack, Stiles’ screams are nearly too much, and Derek holds the whip in midair for a second or two longer than normal, waiting to see if Stiles will safeword. When nothing appears to be forthcoming, Derek once again lowers the whip, this time focusing on the tender skin below Stiles’ buttocks.

“Eleven, sir,” Stiles says in a steady voice, firm and stubborn, which seems to embolden and satisfy something in Derek as he readies the whip again.

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

Derek focuses on maximizing the last flurry of strikes and after the strangled sound of, “Twenty, sir,” Derek can tell by the tenure of Stiles’ voice that he is far gone into his headspace and the languid set of his body tells him that Stiles has found the peace he needs and he throws the whip down.

………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Derek settles against the legs of the sectional and carefully maneuvers Stiles into the cradle of his arms, careful that the tender and smarting skin doesn’t make contact with the floor or his clothes.

Derek places the tip of a straw against the opening of Stiles’ mouth and Stiles greedily sucks the water until Derek takes the cup back and puts it on the coffee table. Stiles tries to follow the cup but Derek simply says, “You can have more later,” as he pops open the cap of skin ointment and dollies out a generous amount as he carefully swings Stiles in his grip so he is laying spread-eagled across his lap.

Derek works the ointment onto Stiles’ skin with one hand and shushes Stiles’ whines and moans as he works it in. The first time they had done this Derek had tried to take away some of Stiles’ pain from the spanking but Stiles said he liked the pain, the grounding of it, and from then on Derek hadn’t tried that again.

Once Derek finishes applying the ointment, Stiles straddles Derek’s hips and settles himself there, smirking.

“Was I good for you?” Stiles asks, with heavy-lidded eyes. Derek can tell that he is crashing and heading deeper into subspace.

“Always good for me,” Derek says, nipping at the shell of Stiles’ ear before crashing their lips together and tapping the pads of his fingers across Stiles’ ribcage.

Derek feels Stiles let out a breathy moan before Stiles pats his chest. “Thank you,” Stiles says, looking away from Derek’s face almost as if he is ashamed of needing what had just transpired. “I know you hate it,” Stiles adds in a low voice that only werewolves would be capable of hearing.

Derek pinches the skin near Stiles’ ribcage and grabs Stiles’ face and swivels it so again Stiles is looking Derek in the eyes—to see the sincerity of what he’s about to say—“I’m always going to give you what you need.”

Stiles must see what he needs because a second later Derek feels him let out a relieved sigh and feels Stiles nuzzle closer into his chest before Stiles says, “You’ve turned into sappy wolf while I was away,” giggling.

“We should take this to the bed so you can sleep,” Derek says, knowing how tired Stiles gets after these scenes but Stiles only goes slack in his arms.

“Here a bit longer,” Stiles says and Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’ chest feeling Stiles pillow his head on his shoulder and doze off.

Derek knows that he should put his foot down and carry Stiles over to their bed but he’s never really been that good at denying Stiles anything, especially when he is like this.

As Derek runs his broad hands up and down Stiles’ back, feeling Stiles sink deeper into his grip with each trip up and down, Derek thinks that he wouldn’t have this any other way most days. Sure, their relationship isn’t conventional, but in it Derek found another family worth running with and fighting for in Stiles.

They aren’t perfect and this arrangement they forged isn’t perfect but it is their slice of _perfect_.


End file.
